


Queen of Peace

by yourcrookedheart



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ghosts, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Samhain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:01:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27314467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourcrookedheart/pseuds/yourcrookedheart
Summary: The first Samhain after Arthur's death, Gwen dreams of him—as she does most nights.This time is different.
Relationships: Gwen & Merlin (Merlin), Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 26





	Queen of Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Some Halloween fic to provide you all with a bit of light in dark times. 
> 
> As always, thanks go out to ExistentialMalaises for her loyal beta services. I hope the Arwen love is sufficient repayment. <3

Camelot is readying for the long winter.

The woods beyond the outer city walls have colored a deep orange, not unlike flames. Soon all the trees will be bare, and the hills will have lost all color, replaced with white snow blankets. When Gwen was yet a child, her father would take her and Elyan out on a search for firewood and they would play in the snow, lobbing balls of ice at each other until one or both of them were begging for mercy. Back then, the snow seemed merely a game—a cold one, granted, but only until they found refuge in their home with their newly acquired firewood.

Only as she grew older would Gwen realize the dangers of snow, and the winter that claimed its yearly sacrifices in the form of elderly villagers and young, fragile babes.

Both the Citadel and the Lower Town have always known the importance of foraging to survive the long stretch of cold months that are now looming. Yet as much as they should be conserving the food they have after this year’s meagre harvest, the feast of Samhain is a longstanding tradition, favored by noblemen and townsfolk alike. Guinevere will not take this from Camelot. Not now.

“Your Highness.”

No matter how often Gwen has told her not to, Alys still curtsies every time she enters the Queen’s chambers. She at least has the good grace to look chastised when Gwen shoots her an admonishing glance.

“The kitchen staff has been instructed to reserve food for the Lower Town,” Alys says, poking at the dying embers of the hearth. From now on until spring they will have to keep it burning, but Gwen has spent enough winters in the castle to know that once winter truly begins its siege, no fire will stop it from entering the walls.

Gwen thanks Alys, eliciting another curtsy that Alys quickly curtails. “How are the people?” she asks, before Alys can make her leave.

Alys pauses on her way out of the door. “They are worried, Your Highness.” Overly concerned with formalities as she is, Alys can at least be trusted to be honest. “But Samhain will provide a welcome distraction.”

That was the aim of all this. It’s reassuring to have it confirmed by someone like Alys, who lives near Gwen’s old home and knows the people’s mind like no one else in the castle.

“Camelot is not likely to forget this night for a long time,” she assures, leaving Gwen in her room with the fires crackling.

*

The palace staff has outdone themselves. Garlands hang suspended between the warm glow of the wall sconces, the green vines reminiscent of summertime. A long table, richly decorated with overflowing plates of meats, fruit and vegetables, replaces the usual round table of the Council. On the dais the thrones have been pushed to the side to make room for a collective of bards and musicians who provide a background to the eager chatter of the Court.

“Cheers,” Merlin says, handing Gwen a goblet of mulled wine that smells enticingly like cinnamon and grains of paradise. He’s clad in dark blue velvet, the clothes she had sent to his rooms earlier today. She half expected him to forego her gift in favor of something simpler, and she’s grateful he didn’t. The doublet matches her own dress. Appearances are everything.

“Cheers,” she concurs, watching the tableau in front of her; a noblewoman who appears close to fainting when one of the greener knights kisses her hand. She hears Merlin’s snort next to her and takes a sip of wine to suppress her own.

“This feels like old times,” Gwen says later, after a spell of silence. As a servant, Camelot’s glorious banquets used to be something to look forward to. Morgana was kind enough to let Gwen partake in festivities, so it had been something like an indulgence. As a Queen, feasts were only one more of her duties; diplomatic quagmires rather than celebrations. No one seems inclined towards politics tonight, though, and she feels pleasantly flushed from the fragrant wine—loose and warm, like the weight she’s been carrying around for months is slowly lifting.

“Don’t tell me you miss serving,” Merlin says.

“No—no. I don’t know.” She shrugs. “You know what I mean.”

He considers her with a faint smile. “Remember we used to dance?”

She groans at the memory. “We were terrible. And usually drunk.”

“We were glorious,” he corrects her, before moving from her side. She lets him go, presuming he means to go out and socialize, but he only shifts to stand in front of her. “Your Majesty,” he says, hand outstretched.

“Stop it,” she laughs, pausing when she realizes he’s entirely serious. “We can’t.”

Merlin doesn’t move from his half-bow. “Gwen.”

In the end, she lets him guide her towards an empty circle in the throne room as he leads her into a basse danse. It’s far more formal than any dancing they used to do as servants, and it feels, more than anything, like a compromise. The last time she danced like this was with Arthur, at the anniversary of his coronation. She wonders what they must look like to the rest of the Court; the Queen and her advisor, matching in midnight blue.

“They’ll talk,” she murmurs, and Merlin says, “Let them.”

A widowed Queen without child is expected to remarry, she knows, if only for the sake of procuring an heir. It has been implied by more than one of the Lords, and though Gwen knows Albion’s peace is too precarious to hand the kingdom over to an outsider, it seems unthinkable; a betrayal of a different kind. Once upon a time she promised herself she would only marry for love, and all she has ever had to love has left her.

More dancers have joined them, and the musicians launch into a Black Alman. “Let them talk, Gwen,” Merlin repeats, before the Lord and Lady Montfort steal them both away.

*

It is near midnight when the Samhain celebrations are interrupted by the arrival of a delegation of Druids.

Gwen has issued an open invitation to all magic users in the kingdom months ago, but the response has been hesitant. She cannot blame them. Uther’s bloody reign, the same reign that cost Gwen her father, still haunts the halls and square of Camelot. Despite their shared loss, she cannot pretend to have much in common with the shrouded Druids, and both parties know it. She is all the more grateful that they have decided to join the feast, and she tells them as such.

Their leader, a tall, elderly woman with white hair shorn close to her skull, trains her black eyes on Gwen, nods her head once, and doesn’t utter a word.

“Muirgen hasn’t spoken in years,” Merlin murmurs into Gwen’s ear. “It’s not an insult.”

Gwen certainly hopes it isn’t. “Welcome to Camelot,” she says, following Merlin’s cue and bowing her head. “I pray your stay will be comfortable.”

More blank silence follows her words. Muirgen is by far the eldest of the Druids; Gwen suspects the others are thirty at most, and there is a child clinging to Muirgen’s skirts with eyes as dark as a raven’s feathers.

At last one of them steps forward; a young man with fine features and a winsome smile. He bows before Gwen. “Gratitude,” he says. His accent, to her surprise, is that of Camelot. “Our Lady Muirgen wanted to see with her own eyes the reign of the  _ Brenhines Heddwch _ .”

_ Brenhines Heddwch _ . It’s the first time Gwen has heard the words. It appears to be a title, and she wonders whether this is what they’ve taken to calling her.

“I believe in a just and fair Camelot for all,” she says, the same phrase she’s been repeating since she first suggested lifting the ban on magic to her people.

The man bows his head in agreement. “Your husband, as memory serves, was less generous.”

Muirgen’s dark eyes are like a brand on Gwen’s skin. She thinks she can see Merlin stiffening next to her and resists the urge to look to him for guidance. Guidance, in this instance, she fears would only betray weakness.

“I am not my husband,” she says, and remembers her pride to hear Arthur utter those same words about his own father.  _ The King is dead _ , she thinks, bitterly.  _ Long live the Queen _ .

“So it appears,” says the Druid man, bowing once more before he rejoins Muirgen, the company gliding towards the banquet as the nobles of the Court forget their politesse and gawk at the strangers.

“You did fine,” Merlin says once the Druids are out of earshot, but there’s a thin line of worry between his brows and his eyes are on Muirgen.

Wonderful, she thinks. Just what they needed.

*

By the time Gwen retires, it is late enough that she has trouble keeping her eyes open. The moon casts a pale glow over the hallways, the stone walls appearing bone-white, and the Castle is silent as a tomb now that the revelries have ended. Her dress isn’t enough to ward off the chill of night, and she is desperate for the warm comforts of her chambers.

She has only just reached the Southern wing when there are footsteps behind her. Softer than the click of heels of the Knights’ boots. A servant?

It isn’t a servant. Behind her stands Muirgen, even taller and more imposing in the empty hallway with her shadow stretching behind her.

“You startled me.” A nervous laugh escapes her.

Muirgen does not react. She only drifts closer, and if it weren’t for the soft tap of her steps, Gwen would think she was floating.

“Were you looking for your chambers? I can call upon one of the servants if you require anything.”

No response. Gwen lifts her head as if she could gain the advantage of height by doing so. She isn’t sure what she expected, but it isn’t for Muirgen to pause in front of her, only to hold out a simple, unadorned candle.

“Thank you?”

Muirgen’s deep eyes stare into Gwen’s, as if she can convey meaning by gaze alone. Softly, the candle flares to life.

She takes it from Muirgen. That seems to please her, for the corner of her mouth tilts up the smallest amount. With her now free hands, Muirgen reaches out to press her hand over Gwen’s heart. Seemingly satisfied she has conveyed whatever message she intended to share, she turns, leaving Gwen alone in the corridor, the candle still flickering bravely against the draft.

*

Tired as she is, Gwen turns on her heels and heads in the opposite direction. She has learned what misfortunes strange magical gifts can unleash, and she has no desire to battle a curse as well as winter.

“Gwen?” Merlin asks when she steps into his chambers a moment later. He hasn’t gone to bed yet. On the table is a collection of books, betraying more midnight study.

She doesn’t ask, simply placing Muirgen’s candle in front of him. “Have we been cursed?”

Merlin’s lips quirk in approximation of a smile. “You did say you missed the old days.” Turning his attention back to the candle, he studies it from all sides, before blowing at the burning wick. It flickers, then flares brighter than before. “It doesn’t feel… wrong,” he concludes, inexplicably. “But it’s certainly magic.”

“Just an eternally burning candle.”

“A symbol of good faith, maybe.” Even he doesn’t seem entirely convinced of that. “They like you.”

“More than they hated Arthur?” She lets the silence stretch between them in lieu of an answer.

“Well, if I die tonight,” she says at last, when it becomes clear neither of them will fill the quiet, “blame the candle.”

He laughs, letting her take the candle from him. She isn’t sure why she’s so eager to take it with her. If it is dangerous, it is best left here in Merlin’s care, who can at least defend himself against magic. But she’s loathe to let it out of her sight for reasons she doesn’t care to examine, fearing the realization that its magic already has a hold over her.

“Gwen,” Merlin says, before she can close the door behind her. “ _ Brenhines Heddwch _ .”

They’re the words the Druid man had spoken earlier. “What does it mean?” she asks.

He stares thoughtfully at the candle in her hands, then looks up into her eyes. “Queen of Peace.”

*

Muirgen’s candle remains burning as Gwen undresses, as she blows out all the other candles in her room, as she crawls beneath the covers. It’s altogether not a troubling thing. If anything, there is comfort in the perpetual flame, the knowledge that it is there when she closes her eyes and will still be there when she wakes. The last thought she has before drifting off to sleep, is that perhaps that was all the Druids meant to offer: a gesture of a stability, a symbol of peace.

She dreams of Arthur that night, as she does most nights. He is there in her room, as beautiful as the last day she saw her radiant King riding off to Camlann, but he is dressed the way he looked in the evenings when he was merely her Arthur: a simple white shirt, the laces undone. The familiar sight steals her breath from her lungs, more than the nightmares of his dying moments do. This image is hers—a memory, not just a tale.

“You came back to me,” she says as he crawls onto the bed next to her, his skin hot even through the layers of their nightclothes.

“Always,” he breathes into her waiting lips, and kisses her, and kisses her, and kisses her.

There is a moment when she thinks she wakes, for she hears a clattering on the square below her window that must be Knights on their patrol, but Arthur’s hands are as steady on her waist as ever. He pleads with her to stay, mouth burning kisses onto the skin of her neck, and it is the easiest thing in the world to comply. Surely he knows; she would stay in this dream forever if she could.

He blankets her with his body, their clothes long since abandoned between the sheets, and kisses her, and kisses her, as she had never been kissed before she knew him and knows she never will be again. She begs him to stay, as he has begged her. If only she could lock him within the circle of her arms, deep inside her. If only she had.

“My Queen of Peace,” he whispers, kissing her damp forehead while she drifts off to sleep. Even in her dream, that part seems impossible.

*

When she wakes, her bed is empty and Muirgen’s candle is burning steadily. It’s strange—normally when she stretches, the other side of the bed feels cold, like land uncharted. But when she brushes her hand across the right side of the bed that morning, it is warm to the touch. On the untouched pillow next to her, there is an imprint of someone’s head.

She dashes out of bed, towards the candle, but nothing has changed. Like last night, it is plain, a single white stump of wax with a flame that will not die.

Later she finds out that the Druids have left early in the morning, before the Castle awoke. When Merlin asks her whether anything suspicious occurred during the night, she tells him no.

Nothing at all, except for a curse, or maybe a gift.

*

She imagines the night of Samhain would have remained her secret, were it not for the mysterious sickness that befalls her a few weeks later. Gaius performs tests, purses his mouth, then performs more tests with Merlin and Leon hovering in the background, as if the Queen of Camelot might perish any moment.

“What is it, Gaius,” she finally asks, after he has verified her temperature for the third time.

Gaius withdraws the hand on her forehead. “It’s quite strange, Your Majesty. If I didn’t know better, I would think you were with child.”

With a sharp niggle of guilt, she glances at Merlin, and tells them of Muirgen’s candle.

It is unanimously decided that this is a more fortuitous course of events than a deadly disease, though perhaps they will keep the details confined to the present company. If anything, it is a blessing. Camelot, as people keep reminding Gwen, needs an heir, and now an heir it shall have.

Which only leaves the question of marriage.

*

“You look gorgeous,” Hunith tells her, brushing her hand across the golden trim of Gwen’s neckline. Hunith looks beautiful herself, stately in a dark red that in no way betrays her station. Does any part of herself still echo her own upbringing, Gwen wonders? Any part but the stubborn fire burning in her breast, the deepest childlike love that will always belong to her father and to Elyan, that burns all the brighter to keep them both alive inside her.

All day, she has resisted the urge to apologize to Hunith, but now the words refuse to be silenced any longer. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs, trapping Hunith’s hand between her own.

Hunith searches her face. “Why?” she asks.

“I made a promise once,” she says, “that I would only marry for love.”

If Gwen was expecting reproach, she receives none. Instead, Hunith’s eyes soften, and in them Gwen recognizes her own father. “I think you are,” she says and kisses the crown of her head the way a mother would.

*

The wedding is a rather grand affair. Too grand this early in winter, if one would ask Gwen, but this, as well, is diplomacy. Lord Montfort had been endlessly pleased, and she suspects she has earned his compliance for at least an entire year.

It isn’t just for the sake of the Court, though. Gwen doesn’t think there have ever been this many sorcerers gathered in Camelot even before the Great Purge, and though especially the Druids in their sober, earthy robes draw attention from the elegant nobility, it feels like a measure of better tidings to have them in the same room at all.

“I believe we’re expected to dance,” Merlin says. “Is it too late to elope, you think?”

She laughs, as was his aim. “Far too late,” she says, drawing him away from the table and onto the floor.

To the side, near the high windows, stands Muirgen. Though she had let her right hand speak for her like last time, there had been an animated gleam in her eyes that hadn’t been there when they first spoke.

“She wonders whether you still have the candle,” the Druid man had asked, and Gwen had affirmed, thinking of the ever-present flame that has accompanied her like a guiding light. “Keep it,” he’d said. “You never know when you might need it.”

Now, Muirgen acknowledges Gwen’s attention with a nod, a gesture that feels like ‘thank you’ and ‘you are welcome’ in one. Gwen nods back.

She thinks she understands what Hunith meant, earlier. It’s true that Gwen has loved Arthur like she will never love another. And yet this, too, is for love.

It is her love for her father and Elyan that fans the fire within her, as it is her love for Camelot and for her duty that drives her to be a better ruler for her people every day. She loves Merlin with the heart of a serving girl at the cusp of a new world, and she loves him with the heart of a Queen mourning the world she has left behind.

More than anything, more than her own life, she loves Arthur and the unborn son that grows inside her. His child, and his love. All of it, Gwen decides, has been for love.

Slowing down their steps, Merlin follows her gaze to Muirgen. “ _ Brenhines Heddwch _ ,” he says, the words almost like an invocation as he presses a kiss to the side of her mouth.

Gwen smiles. “Long live the King,” she says, and pivots them beneath the light of the chandelier, a thousand candles leading them into winter.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://www.queennsansa.tumblr.com/).


End file.
